The Doctor and the Philosopher's Stone
by wemakeourownmountains
Summary: "Doctor Who? *The* Doctor Who? The one who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" When a letter comes to the orphanage where a young boy called the Doctor lives, he finds himself off to a world of magic, where he meets children like him, such as Amy Pond, Rory Williams, and River Song. When he learns about the Philosopher's Stone, he knows he has to act - before someone else does.


**Full summary:**

_"Doctor Who? **The** Doctor Who? The one who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" When a letter comes to the orphanage where a young boy called the Doctor lives, he finds himself off to a world of magic, where he meets children like him, such as Amy Pond, Rory Williams, & River Song. When he learns about the Philosopher's Stone, he knows he has to act - before someone else does.  
_

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_More information:_

Firstly, this story idea was first and foremost for myself. Personally, my favourite Doctor is 11, therefore he is the Doctor I use in this story. My favourite companions are Amy, Rory, River, Clara, and Donna, so they will play the biggest part. If you don't like that, I'm sorry. However, there will be no anyone bashing; just because I don't like a character as much as another doesn't mean that I'll portray them any differently than they are on the show.

Everyone in Harry's year and a few people older than him are from 2005-present Doctor Who. If they have no known surname (IE Bob from The Time of the Angels) I have used either the surname of the actor who played them, or the last name of the character that they are the equivalent of. The person they are the equivalent of isn't necessarily _like_ them; they may just share one aspect of their personality, or even none at all. For instance, Amy is the equivalent of Hermione, since she is the Doctor's closest female friend. River is the equivalent of Ginny, because she's sassy and has always like the Doctor.

Another way of putting it: If we didn't know Amy's last name, I'd call her Amy Gillan or Amy Granger. Now, Amy is not Hermione; she's still Amy, just in another world, if that makes any sense. If it doesn't, I'm sorry. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask me. A list of all the characters in Harry's year and the name of who they are the equivalent of will be in the Sorting chapter, but is also available on my profile.

**This chapter is very close to how it appears in the books. All the other chapters will have little resemblance to the books other than plot and possibly dialogue. **

I hope you enjoy!

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**Chapter One: The Boy Who Lived**

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley worked for a business that made drills. He was a beefy man with hardly any neck and a large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, as if she had gotten the bits her husband lacked. She spent much of her time spying on the neighbours. The Dursleys had a small son named Dudley, and in their opinion a finer boy couldn't be found.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted – a nice car, a nice house in a nice neighbourhood, nice clothes, and nice possessions. However, the Dursleys had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about about the Whos. Mrs. Dursley's sister and her good-for-nothing husband were about as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys knew that the Whos had a small son as well, but they had never seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping them away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed to himself as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his highchair.

None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half eight, Mr. Dursley gathered his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls.

"Little tyke," chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house.

Slowly but surely, Mr. Dursley's day became very strange. First, at the corner of Privet Drive, he saw a cat reading a map. When he whipped around to look back at it, the map was gone. He looked back in his mirror; the cat was reading the sign that said Privet Drive. No – no, he was _looking _at the sign; cats couldn't read maps _or _signs. Mr. Dursley shook his head and focused on drills.

However, drills were driven out of his mind quickly. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks, of all things. Mr. Dursley hated people who dressed in funny clothes; he supposed this was some new fashion, or perhaps they were collecting for something. His eyes fell on a group of these weirdos standing close by, chattering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that several of these people weren't the young folks he usually saw wearing weird clothes; in fact, one man in an emerald cloak looked even older than he was! The _nerve..._

The traffic moved on, and Mr. Dursley put his mind off of cloaks and onto drills once more. Soon, he was in his office with his back to the window as per usual. If he hadn't sat this way, he may have found it much harder to concentrate. _He_ didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the baker's. He eyed them angrily as he passed; he didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch was whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Who's, that's right, that's what I heard–"

"–Yes, their son, the Doctor–"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking...

No, he was being stupid. Who wasn't such an unusual name. He was sure there were lots of people called Who that had a son with such a stupid name as _the Doctor. _Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure that the Who's son _was_ called the Doctor. He'd never even seen the boy. It might have been Donald. Or Dominic. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got cross at the mention of her sister. He didn't blame her – if _he'd_ had a sister like that...

Mr. Dursley shuddered.

But all the same, those people in cloaks...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realised that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at almost being knocked to the ground; instead, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice, "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw – and it didn't improve his mood, thank you – was the cat from earlier that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it was a tabby, with strange markings around the eyes.

"Shoo!" Mr. Dursley called loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behaviour? Mr. Dursley didn't know. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ("Shan't!"). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are rarely seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction imaginable since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping patterns." The newscaster allowed himself a grin. "Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted," said the weatherman. "I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early – it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a very wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Whos...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er, Petunia, dear – you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls...shooting stars...and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today..."

"_So?_" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought...maybe...it was something to do with...you know..._her _crowd."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared to tell her he'd heard the name "Who". He decided he didn't dare. Instead, he said, as casually as he could, "Their son – he'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't he?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's his name again? Donald, isn't it?"

"No, they call him _the Doctor_, of all things. A nasty, _weird_ name, you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject. They went upstairs to bed, and while Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley snuck to the bedroom window and peered into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it was waiting for someone.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Whos? If it did...if it got out that they were related to a pair of – well, he didn't think he could bear it.

Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly that night. Mr. Dursley, on the other hand, lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last thought before he fell asleep was comforting: even if the Whos were involved, there was no reason for them to come near his family. The Whos knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind...He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in all that. No, it wouldn't affect _them_.

Down on the street, however, more strange things were happening. After a conversation between a bearded man, a woman who Mr. Dursley had seen several times that day – when she was in her animal form, at least –, and, at one point, a giant of a man who arrived on a flying motorbike, something was placed on number four's doorstep. It was a bundle, and inside the bundle was a baby and a letter. With a last parting word of luck towards the child, one by one the three adults left.

The tiny boy who was called the Doctor rolled over in his blankets, one hand clutching the letter, and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, and not knowing that he would spend the next day being driven to a far-away orphanage, and the next weeks being stuck in a dirty crib without even a single toy.

He couldn't know that people all over the country were meeting in secret, raising glasses and saying in hushed voices, "To the Doctor – the boy who lived!"


End file.
